


Even Through Fistfights

by PlasmaBooks



Series: Shelter [4]
Category: Final Space (Cartoon)
Genre: i suggest reading "fallout storm" if you want the explanation for little cato's resp. issues, little cato got in a fight at school and there is a talk to be had, this is my pride and joy and the result of a long while of work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 21:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19858573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlasmaBooks/pseuds/PlasmaBooks
Summary: Little Cato got into a fistfight at school. In the aftermath, there's a talk to be had between father and son.There's also a long ride home through the pouring rain, in the dead of night.And no kid likes being trapped in a car with an angry parent.





	Even Through Fistfights

The little car feels much smaller than usual. Like there is something outside pressing against the windows, aching to come in. Maybe it is the noise. It’s probably the noise.  _ Tap. Tap. Tap. _ A thousand, million taps at once.

Both passengers carry a strong scent of petrichor on their person, although the rain has not touched them in nearly ten minutes. There is rain on the sidewalks. There is rain in the streets. There is rain on the windshield, and on the wipers that come up to dispel it. But there is no rain inside the car; instead, there is merely the memory of it, seeping into grasps of swamped fur, lingering on pink noses and wet jackets. 

The muffled image of city lights blur together with the harsh, blue-ish glow of a passing business sign. The car coasts by a tiered parking garage. Some of the cars there sit in place with their headlights on, geared up to go, to carry their occupants home. Some simply sit in place, as if they never moved at all. Little lights hang from the ceiling in all the open-ended parking spots, allowing just a little peek into the garage from the outside. 

They pass under a traffic light. It shines not a color at them as they do. 

There are more lights not even a few feet past the first. Two of them hang on a pole overlooking the majority of the right lane, separated by a yellow sign stressing a heavy turn to the right. 

The car turns. On both sides of them, the city melts into a featureless forest. The trees are hardly visible through the shadows of the stormy night; ahead and to the left, a parked patrol car’s colorful sirens push away the dark blankets. Somebody has gotten pulled over. Regardless, the car continues onwards. 

He takes his eyes off the side of the road. Pulls them down to the glovebox. The toes of his soaked boots tap against the floorboard as he bounces an anxious knee. 

There’s no other sound besides the pelting rain and the windshield wipers.

And then his father speaks. 

“Cato, you should know better.”

His voice is rushed. Strained. Still laced with anger and stress. 

“You could have been suspended. Kicked out. Do you know what the principal said when he took me outside? He said ‘I am  _ this  _ close to throwing your kid out of here’. And if that’s not enough, you took your gloves off and scratched a kid. They showed me those photos, Cato. Twelve stitches deep.”

The windshield wipers seem almost as angry as he is; they swipe at the raindrops tumbling down the glass, as if their very existence is far too irritating to bear.

“I told you to keep those gloves on no matter what. I told you, if somebody gives you crap about it, go find a teacher. I’m at work, already  _ way  _ in over my head working on locating a missing child, and then I find out I have to rush all the way over here to come get  _ my  _ kid who got in a fight,  _ god,  _ Cato, what were you  _ thinking?!” _

Little Cato lets his head collapse to the side, against the window. Clusters of tiny raindrops race down the other side of the glass. The frequent glow of a street light streaks across his vision. It occurs to him that there’s twice as much water in his sight now. 

His throat closes up, and he gets it. Tears. 

“You’re shorter than about 92 percent of your class. You’re a kid with some of the  _ worst _ respiratory issues the doctors have ever seen. You could have been  _ killed. _ ”

The younger Ventrexian bites his lip. A lump in his throat quickly forms and gets so big that it’s painful to breathe past it.

“You’re a Cato. You should know better than to pick fights where they shouldn’t be.” 

And that seems to be it. Little Cato has a question, a question he doesn’t dare ask, not until they’re at the house, stopped in the garage. Not until the car is turned off, not until Avocato pulls his hands from the steering wheel and leans back in his chair with an exhausted, heavy sigh. The lump in his throat has lessened considerably by then, but his voice still breaks when he finally has the courage to speak. 

“Are you mad…?”

It’s a dumb question, a pitifully dumb question. And he already knows the answer. 

He just wasn't prepared to hear it from somebody so important. 

“Well, I’m not happy.” 

His heart breaks in the silence that follows, flowing to his brain, echoing  _ failure, failure!  _

“But, I’m glad you’re safe.” 

Little Cato’s ears perk. His hands stop in their place halfway down his seatbelt, his eyes drifting up to stare at the older Ventrexian beside him. 

Avocato stares back, wordlessly, with an expression that’s tired, an expression that’s worn, an expression that’s forgiving, relieved, upset all in one. He opens his arms out, and Little Cato catches his voice breaking too, as if he’s desperate now, desperate for something. 

“Come here.” 

Little Cato unbuckles his seatbelt, throwing it away behind him, the sound of the metal loudly clinking against the window mixing with the noise of the younger Ventrexian scrambling over the center console. His arms go around his Dad before they can close in on him. They feel like safety, like something that even without words still manages to say  _ I’ve got you, everything’s fine now.  _ Avocato drags him the full way out of his seat; he settles into a space just before his father’s lap, his hands latching, clasping together behind the older Ventrexian’s back.

He feels through the contact that Avocato  _ was _ desperate. Desperate to hold him, even through all the anger and the reprimanding and the stress, desperate for a hug he could have never had again. Desperate to hold his boy after an event that could have taken him for good. 

“I love you.” Avocato cries. His two hands grasp at Little Cato’s back and the back of his head, pulling him closer, as if he would leave with a gust of wind. “I love you so much, son.”

And just a bit, the air hanging around them grows less heavy. The car becomes less stuffy, less humid. There’s no worry, no pain of a fistfight nor of a stinging lecture one couldn’t escape from. All there is is the relief of being in each other’s arms after such a demanding day, a horrible day. 

“I love you too, Dad.” It’s a whisper, all the lump in his throat will allow now that it’s returned. But it’s enough. 

The rain pulls to a drizzle outside the shelter of the garage. Little Cato listens, but he can barely hear it. 

He only hears the beating of his father’s heart, a heart that will worry for him each and every day, and love him the same. Unconditionally. 

Even through fistfights.


End file.
